


Guess whos sad again

by frogbackpack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Concerned Dean Winchester, Depressed Sam Winchester, Depression, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, also, bc I wrote it months ago when I was lowley hella suicidal, but I have nothing else to post so, here yall go, i wasnt gonna post this, me? projecting? never, unhealthy eating habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:25:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogbackpack/pseuds/frogbackpack
Summary: Sam does a sad. Dean worries. Would’ve made this hurt/comfort but I’m horrible like that.





	Guess whos sad again

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sure you’ve read the tags, but fair warning; sams internal dialogue may be upsetting, so yee.

Sam feels numb. He feels numb and his chest aches. He feels numb, and he feels nothing at all, and everything at once.

He wakes up and knows, just fucking _knows_ , that it’s gonna be like that all day. He checks the time and it’s early. Too early. He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up again and checks the time again. Six hours have passed since he last checked. He still doesn’t get out of bed.

He’s vaguely aware of the knocking at his door. His brothers voice on the other side. A faint question. _Are you okay. Are you okay. What’s wrong. Are you okay_. Sam doesn’t answer and all he wants is to be left alone. His mind echos, shutupshutup _shutup_. He’s not trying to be mean, he just needs to be left alone.

His body aches to move. He considers slapping on his shoes and running. Run far, far away from everything and anything. Run till his legs give out. Till he throws up. Till his heart beats right out of his chest. But he can’t move. His mind yells, _get up. Get out of bed. Stop being so lazy. Move. Move. Move_. He needs to move, but his legs aren’t listening. Or maybe he doesn’t want to get up. He can’t tell. Either way, his body won’t move.

His arms move to grab his phone and check the message Dean sent. _Went on a food run. Be back soon_. They live in the same house-house? Is the bunker a house? A home, maybe? It doesn’t feel like a home-but Dean still texts him. Maybe he’s finally picked up on the fact that Sam couldn’t open his mouth to reply, even if he wanted to. Not that he’s gonna respond to his text with anything other than ‘ok,’ anyway.

He ignores when Dean texts _you haven’t left your room all day. Is something wrong?_

Sam just wants to sleep. Or maybe he wants to shower. Or run. Or do anything at all. Maybe he just wants to go to sleep and not wake up again. He likes the sound of the last one.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, praying the nightmares stay away.

He only wakes up when Dean sits down on his bed, holding a takeout bag and a glass of water. “It’s almost seven and you haven’t eaten, drank, or even gotten outta bed all day,” Dean says, holding the food and glass out for Sam to take with shaky hands. “Sammy, you’re fucking trembling. Can you try eating something? Please?”

Sam sits up, even with his entire body screaming against it. “It’s not that bad. I’m just… I’m cold,” _and I haven't eaten anything in fucking days. So no, Dean, i’m not okay. Farthest thing from, actually_. Sam doesn't say that last part out loud. Doesn't have the energy to deal with how Dean would react.

“One bite, at least, please?” The look in Dean's eyes is a pleading, desperate one. Sam sighs, “Fine.” Dean opens the bag and hands him a soggy looking burger. Sam takes a bite and plops the rest of the burger back in the bag.

The texture doesn’t leave his tongue. It makes him want to puke.

“One bite. Happy?”

Dean sighs and stands up, not picking up the bag. Just as Sam thinks he's just going to leave without another word, Dean turns from the door and says, “Try to finish it, Sammy, please,” then his footsteps echo down the hall.

Sam eyes the bag for a moment, before moving it to the floor. He'll pick it up later, he thinks, when he's not on the verge of opening a vein just to feel something. 

He lays back down, ready to pass out again. Sleeping the whole day away seems like the only thing he has the energy for.

Maybe he'll feel less like absolute garbage when he wakes up again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading what was literally just me being sad in the form of putting all that shit onto Sam. Also, sorry for writing sad shit all the time. Can you tell it’s because I’m a sad shit all the time???? also, pretty convenient that i started editing this the night before i got hit with the Big Sad.


End file.
